My husband Hank is a sentimental sort, but even so, I was touched to read this little poem he’d clipped and saved many years ago. He shares it to remind mothers everywhere that they have the most important job in the world.
Come in. But don’t expect to find all dishes done;
all floors ashine.
Observe the crumpled rug, the toys galore.
The smudgy fingerprinted door.
The little ones we shelter here
Don’t thrive on spotless atmosphere.
They’re more inclined to disarray
And carefree, even messy play.
Their needs are great, their patience small.
All day I’m at their beck and call
It’s “Mommie come! Mommie see!”
Wiggly worms and red-scraped knee.
Painted pictures, blocks piled high.
My floors unshined, the days go by.
Some future day they’ll flee this nest.
And I, at last, will have a rest.
And which really matters more?
A happy child or a polished floor?
|Robbie, Age 3 and Lenora, Age 2 1/2 months
God’s most precious gifts, our children.
Rob and Lenora were His gifts to me and their father, Bob Biggar. I savored the moments of their growing up.
Six years after Bob went on to his heavenly home,
God brought Hank to me, and along with Hank, five more children. Though Carmen, Kathi, Larry, Kari and Nate were already grown up, each one became precious to me in their own unique ways. I wonder if other moms feel, like I do, that Mother’s Day is the most personal of the days we celebrate? I revel in the memories, both old and newer, of God’s precious gift of family.
I wish I’d written these two poems. They are entwined forever with my memories of the little ones that called me “Mom.” Enjoy!
Little Boys of Three
Isabelle Bryans Longfellow
Look tenderly on little boys of three;
Their softness is as fleeting as a flower,
The cheeks like petals such a little hour,
The deepest dimple theirs so transiently.
Even tomorrow, softness may be hard,
The little cotton cushions on the knees
Turned into bony knobs for climbing trees,
The fists so like a rose grow lean and scarred.
His full-moon cheeks will narrow to a line,
The silken hair become a brush of bristle
As mother’s little flower turns to thistle,
And there will linger not one little sign
To prove the cuddly cupid that was he.
Look tenderly on little boys of three.
To My Daughter
Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger,
My daughter, as we walk together now,
All my life I’ll feel a ring invisibly
Circle this bone with shining: when she is grown
Far from today as her eyes are far already.